غزل شمارهٔ 34

The chamber of vision of my eye is the dwelling of Thine: Show courtesy, and alight, for this house is the House of Thine.

By the grace of mole and of down. Thou scratchedest the heart of Arefs: Wondrous, are the subtleties beneath the snare of the grain of Thine.

O nightingale! glad of heart be, in union with the rose; For, in the sward, the amorous warbling all is thine.

To Thy lip, entrust the remedy for our feeble heart. For exhilarating is the ruby-medicine, in the treasury of Thine.

In body, unworthy of Thy service am I; But my soul, its essence is the dust of the threshold of Thine.

Not that one am I to give my heart’s coin to every impudent one: Is the treasure door with the seal of Thine, and the mark of Thine.

O horseman, excellent of work! what a magician indeed thou art, That an impetuous steed, like the sky, is obedient to the whip of thine.

My place, what? When the sky, the juggler, staggereth At the sorceries that are in the store-house of pastime of Thine.

Now, the melody of Thy assembly bringeth the sky to dancing; For, the verse of Hafez, sweet of speech, is the melody of Thine.